


Growing Pains

by Chngminxo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Cliche, Drama, Emphasis on angst, M/M, Romance, Self destructive thoughts, and a relationship study, and spans over a long period of time, anyway hope you like it lmao, experimental for me, idk - Freeform, kind of a study of steve and bucky's relationship without going too far into the wider verse stuff, lgbt issues are discussed but it's broad, loose timeline, mentions of adult content too, more a character study than anything else, more like canon non compliant??, or well, starts when Steve and Bucky are kids, the canon is kinda up in the air a little, though not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 11:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19316986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chngminxo/pseuds/Chngminxo
Summary: A short story about a century spent falling in love.





	Growing Pains

When Steve Rogers falls for James “Bucky” Barnes it's half way through summer, on the corner of Cranberry and Hicks. He's sitting on the fire escape with his legs hanging over the edge and watching the city pass him by. From up there, he can see the shapes of traffic crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, and the glittering lights of Manhattan's skyline with the skeleton of the Empire State Building towering high above the rest. Sometimes, when it's overcast, the clouds look like they're swallowing it whole and he can't make out where the building stops and the sky begins anymore. He hopes he can go up to the top of it one day when construction is all done, because he's pretty sure it could be the closest he'll ever get to flying. 

“Hey!” A hushed voice calls from underneath him, and Steve glances down. It's a boy, around his age with scruffy brown hair and a lopsided grin. He's leaning over the banister a few floors below and waving. At him.

“Hey!” He calls again and Steve chances a glance upwards, to see if there's someone above him the boy might be waving to. There isn't. It's just them.

“Me?” Steve asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

“Of course you.” The boy rolls his eyes. He's grinning wolfishly, seemingly unaware or uncaring of how his body leans out over the banister and hovers above the ground at _least_ seven storeys below.

“I'm Bucky Barnes. We're new, moved in today.” He says, when Steve just stares and it makes him jolt a little, and swallow nervously.

“Steve Rogers.” He replies, “I've- been here a while.”

It's true. Mustard gas had killed Steve's dad when he'd just been a baby, and the little money they got in compensation from the army had been just enough to set themselves up. Their apartment is small, it's up near the roof and the drafts always get in, but Steve loves the view. It keeps him company when his mum works late, makes him feel not so alone.

“You gotta show me around then, punk.” Bucky says, but the name doesn't hold any bite. His voice is warm, friendly, and Steve hopes they'll be the best of friends but Bucky is called inside too soon, and when he waves goodbye, Steve props his chin up against the railing and swings his legs, trying not to feel too disappointed.

It's in the morning that they meet again. A few kids from the block caught Steve when he'd gone down the corner to get half a loaf of bread and a handful of potatoes for dinner with the spare coins his mum'd left him on the table.

They're four punches in when Bucky appears and hauls them off, sends them running. He's not that much bigger than them, but he packs a punch and he helps Steve up to his feet and dusts off his hands once they're gone.

“You didn't have to do that.” Steve wheezes, then winces as his bruising muscles stretch out.

Bucky gives him a confused look, “Of course I did. We're friends.”

Steve starts falling.

 

*

 

He gets sick once Autumn comes around. It's more than just his regular bouts of asthma and allergies, it's an infection deep in his chest that has him bedridden for days. His mum can't get any time off work, she's a nurse in a TB ward, and so he bundles up in blankets and stays indoors until after two weeks all that's left is a strain in his voice, and a persistent cough.

Bucky comes up and visits every day, and one night Steve convinces him to come out onto the fire escape to watch the city sparkle. Soon it'll be too cold, and already even through the piles of blankets he can feel a chill on the breeze.

“Here.” Bucky says, unwrapping his own and bringing it around Steve instead. He runs hot, he always says proudly, but Steve wonders if it's true, or if he just likes taking care of him. The thought is enough to make him feel warmer already.

“Did you draw today?” Bucky asks, his legs swinging through the air. Not far away a horn sounds and they both turn to look towards it.

Steve shrugs, “A little. I tried getting the city again. It's hard, from all the way over here, I can never get the details right.”

“One day we should go in, take the subway to Manhattan.” Bucky grins and nudges Steve's side. He can barely feel it through the layers of cotton and wool, but he knows it's there. 

“You'd get bored if you were just sitting around watching me draw.” Steve rolls his eyes, but Bucky laughs that full laugh he always does when Steve says something he thinks is funny.

“I never get bored!” He replies, scandalised as though the mere suggestion was offensive to him. Steve rolls his eyes again, and when they get back inside Bucky throws pillows at him until Steve laughs so much he needs his inhaler. That night, they sleep on the couch cushions spread out across the living room floor, and share the stack of blankets Steve had been wrapped up in. Bucky doesn't ask about the drawings again that night, and Steve is grateful, because he doesn't know how to admit to Bucky that they're all of him.

 

*

 

They only really have one summer as children, before Bucky grows up tall and strong. He seems to hit a growth spurt at Christmas, and by Easter he's a head above Steve with broadening shoulders and a deeper voice. Steve's own breaks soon after, but he doesn't grow like Bucky does, his shoulders stay narrow like his waist. His bones jut out in all the wrong places and he stuffs folded sheets of newspaper into his shoes in an attempt to be at least a little taller. The kids on the block don't stop picking on him, but he never walks away from a fight and Bucky shakes his head every time he holds the empty OJ bottle they hide in the back of the fridge against his skin in the hopes it'll take the swelling down before Mrs. Rogers comes home. He knows Steve doesn't want to stress her out more than she already is, and he does what little he can to help them, on top of all he does to care for his siblings downstairs.

Mrs. Rogers gets sick in May of '36, though, right when the heat comes. It's a bout of TB that she can't quite shake and everything is quiet in the days after she dies. It's a comfort to Steve that she's buried beside his dad and he knows Bucky expects him to cry, but he doesn't, he just sits and draws until late every night. There's a tree across the street from the apartment that she'd always liked and he draws it a hundred times before Bucky finally makes him stop. It's like everything falls apart around him, and tears flow until Steve's sure he's drowning, but Bucky holds him close and just sits, listens. His left arm is wrapped around Steve's shoulder, and his right holds on to his inhaler and he offers it up every time he can hear his breath going raggedy again from the force of his sobs and it only makes Steve cry harder.

When he drew his seventy-third tree, he thought about how he had nothing. But he's wrong, and once he's finally stopped crying and the headache is starting to set in, he thinks about how he'll always have Bucky.

Spring comes and goes in the blink of an eye and on July fourth Bucky takes him down to the park by the river so they can watch the fireworks go off. They sit down side by side in the grass and tip their heads as far as they can go while lights explode above them until they're sprawling back, shoulders touching and Steve is pretty certain they're in love. He isn't quite sure how he knows exactly, but he feels it every time Bucky looks at him, and he hopes that Bucky can feel it too.

Honestly, he doesn't know what there is about him to like, and in a moment of desperation, he asks. Bucky smiles and says that it's all because of the sound of his laugh, the heart in his chest and that his eyes are forget-me-not blue, and something settles for Steve right then. He's never thought much of his short height or fragile body other than disdain, but Bucky likes him anyway and for the first time since his mother died, Steve feels as though maybe he's worth something.

“Happy birthday, Pal.” Bucky turns his head. He's missing the fireworks show, Steve thinks, but he turns to look at him, too.

“Thanks, Buck.” He replies, and leaves it at that. There isn't much more he can say, but he knows. He's never been more certain of anything in his life.

 

*

 

Soon, they're working too many hours and don't have the time to see one another like they used to. Steve has to leave the apartment where he'd grown up, the rent's too high for the money he brings in but Bucky helps him move his things into a smaller place down the road and he tries to stay over at least twice a week. It isn't far to the bridge to Manhattan from there, and one night they make the walk but Bucky stops half way across and climbs up the railing. 

“One day we'll set sail on one of these boats, Steve. We'll see the world!” Bucky throws one arm up into the air and cheers as wind whips around him, and a few cars rattle along the road below.

“Buck get down from there!” Steve calls, anxious. His brows are furrowed over his eyes and he reaches up to curl his fingers into the hem of Bucky's sleeve, as though that would hold him back if he was going to fall.

“No!” Bucky laughs into the wind, “I feel like I'm flying!”

Bucky has always been eager to explore, not like Steve who can barely stomach the thought of crossing the bridge out of Brooklyn. The Barnes' have been upstate before, to visit an aunt on a farm near Canada and as Steve watches the way Bucky's face brightens at the sight of the ships coming in, a knot forms in his stomach. The dread that one day Bucky will go somewhere Steve can't follow.

War had broken out across the Atlantic in September, and three years later Pearl Harbour is attacked. Bucky is one of the first called up to fight, and Steve's attempts to enlist grow more and more desperate. His father served, he'd lay down his life, but Bucky was going over there, and Steve can't let him go alone.

In the end he has to, of course, and Steve wishes they'd parted on better terms. It isn't a surprise to him that Bucky gets frustrated but that last 4F cuts Steve deep and he can't take any more rejection. They go on a date the night before, two women between them, and all Steve wants is to take Bucky's face between his palms and kiss him because he looks so handsome in his uniform, and he can't bear to let him go. He doesn't kiss him, though, he never has, and by morning Bucky ships out and Steve is on his way to something entirely different. Something that changes him in ways he didn't know he could, and the first time he looks at himself in the mirror, he wishes Bucky was there to see it.

Everything feels wrong at first, and it's like he has to learn to walk again. He isn't used to his broad shoulders or above average height, and he misjudges his movements in the beginning enough that he develops a pattern of bruises on his shoulders where he forgets his own size. People look at him more, too, and Dames start to ask him to dance, but he doesn't like the feeling that his skin isn't his own until he's made it to Italy, and he thinks he can use it for good.

When he first hears the 107th is captured it's like the earth falls out from under him and he's fairly sure he's going to be sick. Thankfully, though, he has Peggy there, she's a friend and with her help he makes it to Austria and fights through the barricades until he can get to Bucky.

The building goes up in flames, but when Steve calls out for Bucky to run he says, “No! Not without you!” And they make it back together, walking side by side like they used to. The height difference, or lack thereof is so strange that Steve catches Bucky staring and he sends him his most confident grin. Finally, he's someone Bucky can be proud of. Maybe even someone good enough to call Bucky his own.

The barracks in London is packed with infantrymen, and Steve is lucky to score a room alone. Everyone eats together around rickety wooden tables and most retire early because they're so grateful to finally have a solid wood and tile roof over their head but Steve and Bucky stay up late. For a long time, they sit in the mess hall but just before midnight they take the stairs back up to Steve's room where he presses Bucky against the wall and finally gets that kiss.

As soon as he does, he wonders what it is that took him so long, because everything about kissing Bucky is perfect, from the feeling of his lips to the scratch of his stubble, to the way it makes his heart feel like it's so full it's going to break. Everyone else has gone to bed, and so they try to be as quiet as they can as their hands fumble with buttons and knots and soon Steve is on his knees before him trying to touch every inch of Bucky's skin with his lips and tongue until he's arching and tensing and whimpering under his breath.

The first time is hard and fast, the second is slow and when they're finished their chests are heaving and hearts are hammering and Steve has never felt so alive. He's laying on his back with Bucky on his side pressed against the wall tracing lines down over his chest. The finger starts at Steve's throat and moves down over his breast, circles a nipple and maps out the spaces between the muscles of his stomach until it finds his navel. It's the first time Steve's ever been proud of his body, but Bucky's eyes are sad as he takes in the sight of him, 240lbs of solid patriot

“What is it?” Steve asks, before he can even catch his breath.

“It’s just not the Steve Rogers I- knew.” Bucky says, and Steve can’t help but wonder if he means to say something entirely different.

 

*

 

They take risks, on and off the field of war. Under Steve's command is a mismatched assembly of soldiers, Bucky included, and they call themselves the Howling Commandos. They're sent across Europe to shut down Hydra's bases one by one and every morning they wake up not knowing if they'll live to make it back to bed that night. That's the reason why everyone pretends they don't see Steve and Bucky for what they are, it's also the reason they're careless. 

In January of '45 they're holed up in a cabin somewhere in the Swiss Alps. Five of the commandos are sleeping, but Steve and Bucky are outside, in the snow with eyes searching between the sparse trees for movement. There's only one road in and out and they're skirting on the edge of the treeline, anyone coming would be spotted miles away, yet they sit, and wait.

Steve's shield is leaning up against the outer wall of the cabin beside him and together they're perched up on a log. It feels like it should be pitch black out there, but the moon is full and its light reflects off the pristine white snow brightly enough that they can make out each other's faces easily. That's why Steve is watching Bucky while he leans back and gazes up at the sky.

“I wonder if there's different stars here.” He comments. There's a little smile toying at his lips.

“We can hardly see any stars in New York.” Steve replies and Bucky laughs a little, mostly to himself. They're trying to be quiet, trying not to draw any more attention to themselves than they already do, even though the others are sleeping.

“Brooklyn feels like a long way away.” Bucky adds, then rubs his hands together. He's wearing gloves, and they're thick but even laden down with layers it's hard to keep the chill out. Steve notices, of course he does, and shifts a little closer across their makeshift bench. He runs hotter now, and he pauses a second to think about how they're a far cry from how they used to be when they were kids and Steve could hardly last a month without getting sick, and Bucky would go cold to make sure he was rugged up.

“Yeah,” he says, “we're a long way from Brooklyn.” And he means more than just miles. Bucky seems to get it, because he nods his head a couple of times and presses a little bit closer.

Whispers have started that the war is ending. Germany is still advancing towards Stalin's Soviet's but they're spread too thin, leaving gaps to let the American's through and with every Hydra base taken, they make it that little bit closer so that Steve has started to wonder what comes after, where they all go.

He turns his head and looks at Bucky again, still craning his head back and gazing upwards and Steve has to smile. It's something he's always loved about him, you see, that he can find wonder in anything from a starry sky to a shipping lane, and most recently in Steve's body.

“When we get back maybe we should look for a place.” Steve says, and as soon as the words are out he regrets them because Bucky starts and turns to him quick.

“What?” He asks dumbly and pulls away, just an inch at first but it's enough for the cold to slip between them and Steve shivers. 

“When we get back to New York. After all this is done...” He falters. It isn't something they talk about: _after._  

“You want us to live together.” It's a statement more than a question and Steve nods.

“Yes I want us to live together, of course I do. I'm sick of sneaking around and sleeping on pillows on my living room floor as though I don't-” He cuts himself off, shakes his head and tries again, “Once we're discharged what's stopping us?”

“ _God_ you’re so naïve, you think people will just forget about you? The army will just _let you go?_ They created you, Steve. They created you to be a _weapon_ for them.” Bucky tries to keep his voice down low but it's strained, tight, and more than a little afraid.

“When the war is over-” Steve tries, but he's interrupted.

“What, this all just goes away? You hand in that shield and everyone just forgets about you? God, Steve... while they were injecting you with whatever shit that was, I wish they could have injected you with some _brains_.” Bucky's tone is getting harder, he isn't whispering anymore and he stands up.

It's hurtful, but Steve keeps his head high, rises to his feet and says, “You’re scared.”

“Damn right I’m scared! Because this _doesn't_ go away, Steve, none of this goes away! You're Captain America for Christ's sake, you've got the most recognisable face in the world. 

“That's a damn lie and you _know_ it! Without this uniform, without this shield _no one_ knows who I am and I'd give it up, Buck, I'd give it all up for _you!_ We could try, find a place in Brooklyn and lay low for a while-” 

“What if we get found out, what then?”

  
“Then we go somewhere else.” Steve stands his ground.

“Where, Steve? Where do we go? We can't keep running around in circles chasing our tails as though it's gonna lead us somewhere different. You know as good as I do what happens to- guys like _us._ We would both be arrested, or worse. Nowhere will accept us, nowhere will turn a blind eye. We'd be driven out of every town from New York to the West Coast until there isn't anywhere else to run!”

“So what, then? We just let it go? Pretend nothing ever happened? Go back to double dates with dames we barely know, and sleeping four feet apart on cushions on the floor as though _neither_ of us hasn't wanted this for- for _years?_ ” Steve's entirety is trembling so much that he thinks he might vibrate right out of his skin. He's caught somewhere between heartache and anger and either way he thinks the ground is going to open up and eat him whole. Every fibre of his being wants to promise Bucky that things will be alright because he knows he wants this as much as Steve, but he doesn't know which words to say and Bucky slips a little further out of his fingers with every breath.

He's different to the Bucky he'd farewelled on the steps of the recruitment office. His tipped hat and pressed shirt were replaced with unkept stubble and a thin layer of mud they can never get out of their clothes but Steve doesn't love him any less. Nothing could make him love Bucky less.

“What about Peggy?” Bucky finally says and Steve thinks he might as well have been punched.

“What _about_ Peggy?” He asks.

“You and her, it makes _sense_.” It sounds too much like Bucky is giving up and so Steve just sighs, tries to smile and catches his index fingers in the belt loops of Bucky's slacks.

“Nothing about this makes _sense_.” He concedes and pulls Bucky in against him so they can forget their discussion for that night. It only takes three kisses for hands to wander and when Bucky is spread open and keening, he wishes the war will never end so they can have nights like this forever.

 

They can't, though, because Bucky dies the next day, down in a valley filled with ice and snow. A part of Steve dies, too, a part that he thought had been left behind on a fire escape high above Brooklyn fifteen summers ago the first time he saw a crooked smile and a pair of grey-blue eyes.

 

*

 

When Steve is in the ice, he dreams. They're not nightmares, they're dreams of longing and contentment, and of red-breasted robins flying into open skies leaving behind fields of swaying wheat. The clouds are soft and white, the breeze pleasantly cool and he isn't sure how, but he always knows it's autumn. He can feel it in the sun on his face, and he walks through the fields with his arms outstretched to feel the dry and smooth texture of crop ready for harvest under his fingertips. Eventually, he comes to a stop somewhere in the centre and he can smell salt on the air, but can't ever see the sea. It's somewhere not far off, just over the horizon and he thinks it's lonely at first but then Bucky is always there, smiling at him like he used to before the war began, when the worst of their problems had been too much rain in Summer, or not enough snow in December.

Strong arms wrap around him, and Steve leans his head against a steady shoulder. He loses sights of the red robins and billowing clouds, forgets the scent of salt and autumn and the promise of winter just over the horizon in favour of something he can't quite put his finger on, something that feels like home. The tip of his finger traces lines between the freckles on Bucky's left arm, and a loving voice hums songs almost-familiar but just not quite into his ear. Steve is small and skinny, but even with his awkward angles and jutting bones he manages to fit in Bucky's hold just right.

At some point, they lay down, Bucky on his back, Steve against his chest. His eyes are closed, and Bucky's fingers tenderly run through his hair while his heart thumps a steady rhythm beneath Steve's ear. He wonders if he can concentrate enough to make their hearts beat in unison, but he never follows through on the consideration. Not when Bucky tips his head down and nuzzles into his forehead, presses a kiss just between his eyebrows. The wheat sways in the breeze and it's just tall enough to shelter them from the glare of the setting sun. But Steve never gets cold, not when he has the warmth of Bucky beneath him, around him, filling him up until he feels like he might burst and if he was asked where he was, he would probably guess it was Heaven, but no one ever asks. There's no one else there, just Steve and Bucky under the Autumn sun and red-breasted robins dipping, gliding, and beating their wings.

 

*

 

It isn’t heaven though, and when Steve wakes up panting he's in a dolls house built from cardboard to hide him from the rest of the world, and to hide the rest of the world from him.

At first, he's lost, then he's angry, and he spends hours a day for the first few weeks in the gym with his knuckles strapped facing a punching bag that swings with every hit he lands. It's a practiced rhythm, left jab, right cross, left hook, right hook, right cross, right cross, left jab, left upper-cut until his hands are going numb and he finally hits so hard the bag goes flying. Sand spreads out across the floor and Steve pants for a moment, glares at it. He wishes he could hit it even harder, until his hands break and his bones shatter, and the pain in his body outweighs the one he feels in his chest. Red-hot and burning. Anything to dwarf the sensation of being so wholly and utterly alone.

“You’re lucky to be alive.” Fury comments one day and Steve wants to say something. He wants to say that there's nothing _lucky_ about waking up in a foreign world, where everyone he's ever loved is dead. There's nothing _lucky_ about walking the streets of the city he grew up in and not recognising a single thing. There's nothing _lucky_ about being torn from the only heaven he may ever know and losing his greatest source of joy all over again, but he knows better than to bite the hand that feeds him. That night, though, while staring at his face in the mirror he thinks bitterly that he and Nick Fury have very different understandings of luck.

Crashing that plane was supposed to be the end of the line, but Steve keeps on marching forward.

 

*

 

He does make friends, eventually. Shared experience is something he knows he won't find, but it comes easier with them, the others. The Avengers, as Coulson so eagerly tries to call them. Tony is tiresome from the start, he reminds Steve of his father, Bruce is reserved, Thor is far too different to understand but things seem to come easily with Natasha. She doesn't treat him like a comic book hero like the others do, and something in Steve tells him she understands a thing or two about loss. He likes that she calls him _Steve_ instead of _Cap_ and she introduces him to Clint, too, once New York is cleared. He is so used to defining chemistry between men and women who'd dance together in lieu of flirtation and shyly consider how to introduce their partner to their family once the waltz is rounding up, but Clint and Nat have something different. They're not lovers, they're comrades, friends, and Steve can see the way they hold one another up without ever doubting, or questioning. In many ways it reminds him of Bucky, but in others it doesn't. Nat loves Clint, and he loves her back, but in a way that's platonic, lasting, a kind of love that is strong and straight down the line.

Even with new friendships, loss weighs down hard on him. He'd spent most of his childhood mourning his father, and a lot of his young adulthood mourning his mother, and in the months since waking up he'd mourned Peggy, as she'd been before the Alzheimers set in, and the Howling Commandos, his Barbershop Quartet and the kind old man who ran the store on the corner back in '43, who'd always asked him how he was doing, if his lungs were holding up. Steve missed them, sure, but he knew that with time the ache in his chest would subside. Some would be quicker than others, but eventually that yearning would be overshadowed by fond memories and the comforting knowledge that without him they had lived long and fulfilling lives. Bucky is different, though. Steve is going to spend the rest of his life mourning Bucky.

He meets Sam a few months after New York, racing around the capitol. He's the first person Steve thinks understands, about the war at least, and Steve isn't quite sure what it is about him, but he trusts him. Enough that when things go south, he and Nat turn up at his door, and without a moment he steps aside to let them in.

They're covered in dirt, exhausted and reeling and Nat heads into the bathroom first to wash up, leaving them in the kitchen. Sam leans back against the counter top and watches as Steve silently looks over the magnets stuck to the fridge, they look like souvenirs from Sam's travels. There is one from Niagara falls, another from Tennessee and tucked beneath a plastic Golden Gate Bridge is a post card from Rome and a photo. There are six people, all of whom smile and laugh at the camera and Sam in his dress uniform is right there in the middle with his arm wrapped around a radiant young woman, dressed in white. At first Steve assumes, but the longer he looks at her, the more he sees how her nose is so like Sam's, and how her eyes hold the exact same mischief.

“My little cousin's wedding in Vermont.” Sam says and Steve glances back at him. He nods, folds his arms over his chest.

“She looks beautiful.”

“Damn straight.” Sam says proudly, “Known her since she was a little baby, I used to look after her while her mum was working. The brightest little kid, I thought she was going to take over the world and I never in my life thought she'd meet someone who deserves her.”

Steve laughs at that, “And did you approve?”

“I did.” Sam smiles and pulls the photo free and points at the woman standing to his cousin's left, “That's her." 

Sam says it so casually, but Steve feels like he's been punched in the gut, it sends his mind reeling and Sam must see it in his face because his eyes are wary. 

“They're married to each other? That's legal?” Steve asks, and he hears how it comes out all wrong and tries to chase his own fumbling mouth, “For- people like that, I mean. People who are into- _that-_.”

“Yikes grandpa don’t go all 1945 on me now,” Sam plays it off like it's a joke, but Steve can see he doesn't think it's funny. 

“I don't- No, I don't mean it like that.” Steve explains hastily, then swallows the bile he didn't expect to rise in his throat, “I just... Knew someone this would have been important to.” He shakes his head, turns away and something softens in Sam's expression.

“It's not legal everywhere yet, but that time is coming.” He says.

Down the hall the water shuts off, and Steve excuses himself to wait his turn sitting at the end of Sam's bed. He rests his elbows on his knees and settles his chin in his hands while staring at the texture of the soft grey carpet in the morning sun. Flecks of dust are billowing through the air, glittering in the light and he wishes he could have told Bucky that maybe things would be okay for them after all.

 

*

 

There's not a lot he can understand in this new century, and it makes him feel like he's wearing a suit that doesn't quite fit. Everything is stuck somewhere between foreign and familiar, and Steve thinks he's always out of step, but the fighting is something that he can make sense of. In Sam's apartment, Nat asks him what it feels like to have died for nothing but Hydra Steve can handle. It's suddenly like the old days again, and with his shield on one arm and the star across his chest he forgets everything off about the world he lives in now and fights the old fight.

He's Captain America, saving the world. It's what he was created to do.

But Steve trips up again in the shade of the bridge, when he realises what Bucky has been turned into. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks, and he feels like he's clinging to that train again, above the valley where half of him died. 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” He says, and then he's gone again, like he was never there at all and Steve wants to save him more desperately than ever. There’s still a part of him, though, the selfish part, that wishes all those years ago the ice had killed them both.

 

*

 

When Bucky is on ice, he doesn’t dream, he only sees colours. They're the same every time he's wiped, and when he wakes up all he remembers is white, black, red and forget-me-not blue.

 

*

 

After what happens in DC Steve vows to find him, and eventually he does in Bucharest in an old rattling safe house. They stand face to face, and Bucky looks at him with wary, unfamiliar eyes and it almost breaks him, but Steve stands strong and tall and asks: “Do you know who I am?”

“I've seen you...” Bucky tries, hesitates, tries again, “We fought in the sky above the lake, you were my mission.”

“But do you know who I am?” Steve repeats. He's holding his shield close, but he wants to drop it, he wants to drop everything and beg Bucky to remember New York, the Brooklyn bridge and everything else that made them who they were together. Things are quiet for a long moment. Wind is whistling and making the shutters bang against the side of the building but they don't take their eyes from one another, Steve can't look away. It's the first chance he's had to look at Bucky, really look at him, and he takes in his unshaven jaw, long hair and civilian clothes that seem to fit him all wrong. The Bucky he knew would have never stepped out looking half so unkept, but then again the Bucky he knew is gone.

“Steve.” Bucky says finally, “Steve Rogers, Captain America. You said you knew me, and that you wouldn't fight me, and I saw your face in the museum where they said we were friends. And that I died.”

“You didn't die.” Steve comments. It's unnecessary, but he can't help it. He can't believe he's made it this far and finally, for the first time since waking up, he thanks the serum for saving him.

 

*

 

They're on the back foot, but Steve doesn't give up. Neither does Bucky, thankfully, and some days it feels like the world is ending, but when they face off against monsters and men they rise from the rubble together, just like they used to, and Steve learns that he would fight anyone. Anyone except Bucky.

It's in October that Steve comes home from a run and sees water sliding out from under the bathroom door. It pools in the hallway and when he gets closer, he can hear the sound of the shower running and at first he thinks he should just leave Bucky alone. Things haven't been easy since returning home, but then again easy has never been their element.

It had been Steve's idea to find a place in Brooklyn, he thought it would help Bucky to be somewhere he knows but his memories seem trapped so far inside of him that he's only a shell of who he once was, and the fear he feels is breaking Steve's heart.

Some days are easier than others, healing has never been linear, but the nightmares plague them both. Often times Bucky wakes up screaming, other nights he mumbles to himself in Russian, but every time Steve comes to him he calms down just enough to drift off again. He needs his sleep, even if he begs some nights to stay awake, so his demons won't find him.

Those demons are why Steve can't walk past the bathroom door, or the pooling water and when he pushes through and steps inside he finds Bucky mostly clothed sitting down on the shower's tiled floor just staring forward. His hands, metal and flesh, are folded in his lap and his red shirt and black boxers are clinging to his skin while wet hair hangs limp in his eyes. Steve can hear music playing from the radio now, a show tune from just before the war began, and it's all so achingly familiar that it sends a shiver down his spine.

“We danced to this once.” Bucky says, his eyes straight forward, “You were wearing that brown tie I always hated, but you liked it so much I always said you were lookin' alright.” 

Steam is rising from the cubicle, and Steve inches that little bit closer, “I remember, Buck.” he says, “It was before you were called up, you were wearing your best jacket and you had your hair slicked back nice. We walked home the long way, around the water and under the bridge and you kept making me laugh, until I was coughing since my lungs weren't doing so good.”

“Were we happy?” Bucky asks, and his brows furrow as though he's trying to figure out if he knows what that feels like and Steve nods.

“We were, before the war began. Things were hard, but we had each other. That's all we needed in those days.” He says.

“I'm trying, but I don't remember. Not Brooklyn, or New York. I don't remember my mum's name, or what she looked like, or the sound of her voice. Not the war, either, really. I don't think I'd know my own name, if I didn't recognise the way you say it.” Bucky clenches his fists in frustration and finally, Steve joins him. He doesn't waste time taking off his shirt or shorts, he just toes off his shoes and sits down under the spray so they're side by side.

“What _do_ you remember?” He asks.

“Just the little things. Colours, mostly, and feelings. I can remember eating bright red strawberries in the sunshine, watching fireworks on the fourth of July, I remember forget-me-not blue. And I remember loving you so much it made my stomach hurt sometimes, but I can't remember if you loved me back.”

“I did.” Steve says, a little too fast and Bucky flinches, “I did.” He says again, calmer this time, “And I didn't stop.”

Bucky looks at him then, for the first time since Steve joined him and finally he leans in to his warmth. Dark hair is sticking to Bucky's forehead and cheeks, and he blinks every time droplets of water catch in his eyelashes and blur his vision. 

“I think I've loved you for a very long time.” He says, then smiles a little smile, like he's just remembered something beautiful he'd forgotten and Steve lets out a breath that's long and slow. 

The admission makes him feel both lightheaded and warm and when he turns to look back at Bucky he realises he can't stop staring. On a hundred different nights in a hundred different places Steve imagined what it felt like to be right here, in this very moment but now it has come he forgets every half-thought scenario, or quik witted remark. He just wraps Bucky up in his arms and buries his face in the crown of his head. The funny thing is that Bucky still smells the same, and every time Steve breathes him in he feels like he's fourteen again and it's the middle of July, and it's in moments like this, when it feels like nothing has changed, that he realises it doesn't really matter how things end. They made it here, after all.

“I've been loving you for just as long, Buck.” Steve whispers and wipes drops of water from along Bucky's cheekbones, swipes his thumb over his lips and kisses him.

Steve knows he will still never stop mourning Bucky; the Bucky who died in '45 and who he fell for half way through summer on the corner of Cranberry and Hicks. It doesn't mean he doesn't love the Bucky he has now, though, because Steve is fairly sure he has fallen in love with him a thousand times since that night they first met. He fell for him again in '39, on top of the Brooklyn bridge, he fell for him in '43, the first night they were together in Europe. He fell for him when he died, he fell for him in his dreams and he falls for him again, now, scruffy and confused and soaked down to the bone, and with more scars on the inside than anyone could fit on their skin. But he's Bucky, and he's there, and Steve knows he's going to fall in love with him a thousand times again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so this is my first ever Steve/Bucky fic, and it's kind of an experiment more than anything else. Just trying my hand at new characters and a new fandom, and something a little different. It's obviously influenced by canon but not entirely canon compliant so I'm sorry it diverges a little! Hope you liked it ily hit me up on twitter @suckybarness if you wanna chat!
> 
> Also: I know Steve and Bucky had bigger problems than the weather in summer before the war but 'Bucky is there smiling at him like he used to before the war began, when the worst of their problems had been high mortality rates, lack of medicine and the great depression' didn't quite have the same ring to it.
> 
> For my boo Rini, who talked me into writing this when I talked myself out of it.


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